


All’s well that ends well

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and they lived happily ever after</p>
            </blockquote>





	All’s well that ends well

Beta: lady_t_220  
Disclaimer: all characters belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

The sleek black car glides to a halt exactly opposite 221b. The chauffeur turns off the engine. They sit quietly for a few seconds before Mycroft turns towards his companion slightly.

“My sincere compliments on your behavior this evening, brother mine. Impeccable. I’m glad to say you’re finally reaping the harvest of Nanny’s lessons in etiquette. Mummy would have been so proud of you.”

“I do know very well when to behave, Mycroft,” Sherlock huffs. “Although I found the whole lot insufferable; that cretin from the Sun in particular. I know when it's in my best interests to appear utterly delighted by the fact they didn’t find it beneath themselves to be served a dinner prepared by one of the best chefs in the country.”

“But all for the best, wasn’t it?” Mycroft says. “In return they had to listen to your little lecture on the wrongs they did to you and the danger of not checking the facts before they dragged your name through the gutter. You even managed to restrict the dramatics to the bare minimum. Well done, Sherlock. Do you want me to send over Anthea tomorrow morning with the collected evidence of your glorious restoration or will you send the good doctor himself to go fetch the morning papers? He'll be able to ogle the screaming headlines on his way back to the happy little love-nest.”

Sherlock scoffs. “John will want to throw a welcome home party, and I must indulge him of course. One more remark, Mycroft, and you will topple straight off the invitation list, small as it is.”

Mycroft smiles. “Welcome back, little brother. It’s good to have you once more installed at 221b Baker Street. Do give my regards to John – and Mrs. Hudson.”

He extends his right hand. Sherlock hesitates for an instant, then grasps it. The skin of Mycroft’s hand is very soft, always a surprise as his hands are quite big, with broad palms and long, thick fingers that exude masculinity. The skin on the back of his hand is smooth and un-lined and the hairs are very fine, hardly traceable. The well-manicured nails emit a discreet shine and the palm of the hand gives off a dry warmth that feels like a pleasant welcome. Despite all the manicured softness of the hand the grasp is firm and authoritative, belying any false impressions formed at the first touch.

The hand that’s shaking this well-pampered tentacle tip of the British government is almost its complete opposite. At first sight one would think it quite feminine. It is slender with long, tapering fingers that appear to have been designed for displaying expensive jewelry; the kind you see in advertisements in magazines that pretend to cater to the tastes of the well-to-do. On closer inspection this effete impression is refuted as the skin reveals itself to be covered in minor scars. They are etched on the back as well as the inside, caused by the handling of various weapons, knuckle fights, the grappling of wall tops and the shimmying of drainpipes, as well as countless experiments that required acids or the burning of highly flammable materials. The nails finally, could feature in a nail polish advert, in the little inserted photograph that shows the maltreated surface before the careful restoration and application of the varnish.

The appearance of their hands conveys all their differences and yet they are siblings. Sherlock hasn’t felt this close to Mycroft since he was a seven year old and the endless round of minor and major betrayals of his trust, whether real or imagined, began. In the past few years however, Mycroft has stood steadfastly by his side; not literally as Sherlock has basically been travelling the globe, hopping from cities to outposts in the back of beyond, but always readily available whenever Sherlock contacted him. Through the wizardry of modern scrambled technology, Mycroft had been able to update him as to the situation at the flat, either from evidence collected at his own regular visits or from the accounts wriggled out of Lestrade who doggedly kept on showing his face at 221b regardless of how reluctant John was. During Sherlock’s absence their relationship had finally begun to alter. Now he has returned Mycroft adopts a slightly less condescending attitude in addressing his brother, while Sherlock receives his attentions with less obvious belligerence.

Sherlock crowns the handshake with a weak smile, no more than a quick upturn of the corners of his lips. “Goodbye, Mycroft. Do drop by any time you like but allow for some mental preparation first.” He lets go of Mycroft’s hand and steps out of the car. It glides off straight away, effortlessly weaving itself into the London traffic.

He shivers in the late evening air. April nights in London are still quite nippy. Three evenings ago he was strolling the boulevard along Sorrento’s coast, enjoying the balmy evening after collecting the evidence needed to ensure the last of Moriarty’s hired assassins would be passing the rest of his life in a prison cell. At 221b John – or Mrs. Hudson in a fit of motherliness – has pulled the curtains. They're not closed all the way though; the light from the room filters through a crack in the curtains on the left hand window. The light doesn’t flicker so John isn’t watching television. It means he’s probably pouring over some medical journal or reading one of those silly spy novels instead. Or maybe he’s sitting together with Mrs. Hudson, quietly talking in front of the fire.

Whatever he’s doing, Sherlock wants to join in. Well, he can join in, can’t he? All he has to do is cross the road, open the front door, take the seventeen steps up and open the door to the flat. He fingers his keys in his coat pocket nervously – no, not yet.

He honestly hasn’t got a clue what John’s reaction to his sudden reappearance will be. Anger is only to be expected but how long will it take for the anger to transform into joy?

Sherlock has been busy in the extreme since he landed at Heathrow two days ago, what with editing all the evidence into a palatable story ready to hit the headlines tomorrow morning.  
And what a triumph that will be; simultaneous coverage in every national paper. The editors-in-chief had been almost tripping over themselves to capitulate to his demands earlier that evening. It was amazing how motivating the threat of a massive legal scandal could be. The afternoon had been equally gratifying, spent with Mycroft in front of the desk of a groveling Scotland Yard Superintendent, the same abject creature that had once invoked John’s ire. And in the morning he had dropped in at Bart’s to see Molly, and ask her to keep mum for just one more day. Her welcome had been warm, to say the least. She had thrown herself at him, covering his face with kisses, smearing his shirt with an insoluble mixture of tears and mascara and lipstick. She had blushed and stammered as she looked at the sorry mess she had made of the garment and the frantic dabbing and brushing with tissues had done little to augment its appearance. The crimson hue that spread over her face then had been painful to watch. It had taken him a quarter of an hour of murmuring soothing affirmations – he wasn’t angry with her for ruining his shirt, her display of happiness at seeing him again or her silly behavior just now – before she let him take her to Bart’s cafeteria for a coffee and a quiet chat.

Everything has gone quite splendidly so far, so why does he now feel this sense of trepidation at seeing John? Is it because John has bad days and he’s afraid today might be one of them?

No, he sighs. Why beat around the bush any longer? It’s guilt; the staggering amount of guilt he has been feeling ever since he jumped from the roof. For the past three years he has pushed the sentiment away, too busy to give in to these predilections while he was busy chasing criminals around the globe. Now the Moriarty case is closed, the effects of its aftermath are ebbing away. Self-reproach is finally ready to leap out of the wings where it has been patiently waiting, eager to walk straight into the spotlights that light up the stage in the theatre of his mind. In fact, it’s already there, strutting the boards, proud as punch, intent upon prolonging his agony till it lasts forever.

His heart is hammering in his chest so hard he can feel the reverberations in his ears. He’s shivering all over, hot and cold at the same time. This is madness; there’s only one way out of this situation and he’s never been one to leave a problem hanging in midair. Whatever John’s first reaction to his entrance will be, he will just have to deal with it.

He’s going to tell John he is alive after all.

Now he has made his decision it takes barely a second to cross the road. He unlocks the door in a hurry, leaps through, shuts it with a kick and takes the stairs two at a time.

Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day.


End file.
